


A red rose out of ice frozen ground

by ViolettaValery



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Devotion, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Healthy Polyamorous Relationship, M/M, Minor Angst, Polyamory, Protectiveness, Sub Yassen, Yassen Gregorovich/Julia Rothman (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaValery/pseuds/ViolettaValery
Summary: What if.....after John left Scorpia, he helped Yassen escape it too? And what if he and Helen adopted him as their new pet?Yassen finally learns what it is to be cared for and treated with gentleness, and he's ready to sign his soul over to the people who showed it to him.
Relationships: Helen Rider/John Rider, Helen Rider/Yassen Gregorovich, John Rider/Helen Rider/Yassen Gregorovich, Yassen Gregorovich/John Rider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	A red rose out of ice frozen ground

**Author's Note:**

> Taylor Swift put out a new song and the lyrics were a perfect title so clearly I had to post this. More installments coming, though I'm not sure how many.

Yassen kneels, head bowed, on the soft carpeted floor of the upstairs bedroom.

He can imagine the scene downstairs: John murmuring “I have a surprise for you” into Helen’s ear, leading her upstairs and down the corridor. “Close your eyes,” he tells her, and she does, and then there’s the creak of the floor as she steps into the bedroom.

He hears, too, the intake of breath at the sight that greets her: Yassen is naked, his hands folded obediently behind his back. And, with that particular mischievous touch John sometimes has, a bow around his cock.

“Oh _John,_ ” Helen says appreciatively.

“He’s ours,” John says. He walks over to Yassen, urges him to tilt his head up with a gentle hand, and Yassen finally gets an up-close look at the woman who has stolen John’s heart, long before he’d taken Yassen’s.

She’s beautiful. Long, dark hair that shines in the sunlight, sparkling, vivacious eyes, and a slim but curvaceous figure. But mostly, he notices the smile, the kindness that radiates from her features, the love that sparkles in her eyes.

“We can keep him?” she asks delightedly.

“Yes,” John confirms. Then, to Yassen: “Show her what he can do.”

Gracefully, Yassen rises and walks over to Helen. He looks to John for permission – Helen is his, after all – but John merely settles in a chair, legs spread. “Go on,” he encourages.

Gently, Yassen urges her toward the bed. She sprawls on it, parting her legs for Yassen to settle between, and watches him curiously.

He doesn’t kiss her. Somehow, he knows that’s not for him. Helen’s lips are for John only. Instead, he finds the curve of her neck and trails kisses over the soft skin there, drawing contented sighs. Methodically, he kisses his way down her collarbone, down her chest, between her supple breasts. She’s wearing a light sundress and he draws one of her breasts out of it, licking and suckling on the nipple. Helen lets out a contented _oh,_ and when Yassen glances up, he sees her head thrown back, hair spread in a halo around her.

He returns to his ministrations, bites gently at the nipple and draws a quicker, sharper _oh_ from Helen.

He chances a glance at John. John, who is very obviously hard, his pants unbuttoned and his hand stroking himself gently as he watches Yassen pleasure his wife.

Yassen slithers down the bed until his head is between Helen’s legs, drawing up her dress. She’s not wearing underwear, and Yassen wonders if she and John had already coupled earlier today. He leaves a trail of kisses up her thigh, for good measure, and then he turns his attention to her cunt.

He never thought he’d be grateful to Julia Rothman for anything, and especially not for the things she made him do when she realized she couldn’t have John, but now, he’s glad that Helen is not the first woman he’s done this for. She is, however, a world apart from Rothman, who had sat astride him, directing his movements and taking her pleasure from him. Helen, by contrast, lets herself be spread out, limbs askew on rumpled sheets, and closes her eyes, trusting her pleasure to Yassen. He places his hands on her thighs, feels the muscles clench and relax as he parts her folds with his tongue and finds her clit. On a whim, he moves his hands to her waist, feels the muscles beneath soft skin ripple there as she shivers and writhes under his ministrations. She is soft, like a bird fluttering in his hands, where Rothman had been nothing but steel.

It urges him on, drawing on every drop of talent he has to draw those soft cries from her. He dares to flit a glance at John out of the corner of his eye; all he sees is John’s gaze, intent beneath heavy-lidded eyes, and the slow strokes of his hand. Yassen doesn’t know how he’s managed not to finish himself off by now, but John’s control had always been made of steel.

He returns his attention to Helen. She’s close now, he can tell from the cries falling unabated from her lips, the rippling of muscle and skin beneath her hands. He licks and sucks, swifter and more forceful now, and, on another whim, pins her hips down as his tongue finds his way inside her.

She comes with a cry, arching off the bed, then goes limp beneath him, catching her breath. He sits up and watches with curiosity. Rothman’s pleasure had always been loud, that one moment of ecstasy where she allowed herself to fall apart, then quickly gathered herself and stood, pristine and immaculate as always. But Helen lets herself lie contentedly on rumpled sheets, eyes closed and chest heaving.

He looks over at John. He’s still hard, cock leaking, but his gaze is fixed on Helen. His features radiate contentment as he watches her recover from her climax. Yassen’s own cock hangs heavy between his legs, demanding attention.

That’s new too. Julia Rothman had never been able to make him feel, something she’d taken as a personal insult. He could never fathom why she kept taking him to her bed, but perhaps she thought this was yet another obstacle she could overcome through sheer willpower.

“Come here,” John orders, with that infinite gentleness he can infuse into commands.

Swiftly, Yassen obeys, sinking down onto his knees. There’s carpet here, too. It’s a strange sensation, not to feel hardwood digging into his knees.

He chances a glance at Helen. She’s opened her eyes and is watching with interest.

He knows what to do without further urging. This, he has done often. He knows what John likes. He knows that familiar, salty taste, the thick cock filling his mouth. He takes it down deep, and like every other time, it forces a surprised sound from John. He never seems to expect Yassen to do _that,_ but oh, did John think there was anything he wouldn’t do for him?

He brings John to climax quicker than Helen. His own ministrations as he watched have brought him to the edge, and Yassen regrets that it leaves him so little to do. There’s no time for the gentle teasing that John likes as foreplay; all he can do is simply fuck his mouth on John’s cock until, in moments, John comes with a cry. John never makes much noise during sex – in this as in all else, his control is immaculate, every movement, every sound, every urge held under lock and key. But there is always that one sound he does let slip at climax, and it is Yassen’s most delicious reward.

Yassen swallows it down, the familiar salty taste of it. John tastes different than Helen, of course he does, they are hardly cut from the same cloth, but it is still a difference he notes with interest. He likes the variety.

He kneels obediently as John catches his breath, ignoring the heavy weight of his own erection.

It’s Helen who breaks his silence, her tone chiding as she says John’s name. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She asks.

John blinks. “Yes, of course.”

Yassen looks between them in surprise. He’d already resigned himself to taking care of his own need, once they dismissed him.

But to his surprise, Helen orders him, “come here.” Her tone is as commanding as John’s, and somehow, that doesn’t surprise him.

Helen sits up, patting the bed next to her, and Yassen sits. She reaches for his cock and he startles. He expects a blow, then – not because he thinks Helen is the sort of woman Rothman is, who would have had him whipped for flinching from her, but because, well. That’s simply what he knows to expect. But Helen just looks at him kindly. “Would you prefer John?” she asks.

He shakes his head, but when he tries to explain, words catch in his throat. How does he explain that he’s known no one’s hand but his own, and, a handful of times, John’s? No one else has cared for his pleasure, certainly not after he gave them theirs.

Helen’s hand is soft, so unlike John’s calloused one, and she watches him attentively as she strokes him.

He, too, makes few noises. John had taught him to keep himself in check. “That’s how an assassin survives: control,” John had said, and Yassen had learned to follow John’s lead and bite back every sound of pleasure. But he cannot school his face into perfect blankness, not with the need building inside him and a hand on him, and Helen seems able to read every minute expression on his face and deduce what he likes: a thumb circling his tip, firm, swift strokes, the occasional pause to draw out the pleasure.

“Yes, that’s good,” she murmurs approvingly as he lets slip the smallest sound. “One day you’ll learn to be so very loud for me, and it will be _beautiful._ ”

Yassen forgets to breathe. _One day?_ Does that mean they’re keeping him for good? John had said but – he hadn’t really believed it. For a while, yes, a new plaything for the two of them, but –

He comes over Helen’s hand before he’s realized he’s done it. He hears a sound, too, some kind of cry, and realizes it’s his own. Panicked, he looks at John, expecting to see disapproval for his loss of control, but sees the very opposite. John’s intent gaze (and Yassen knows what it is to have John’s full attention fixed on him) takes them both in, a pleased smile playing at his lips.

And that’s that. Yassen is theirs now. John shows him to his room (“you deserve privacy,” he explains. “And your own space.”) and he begins to help out around the house. The tasks are menial, hardly worthy of the skills John has instilled in him, but he doesn’t mind. He’s happy that his hands have an occupation other than death, and glad to be useful to these people who seem to see something more in him than a killer.

It turns out John is the one who cooks, and he teaches Yassen. Yassen watches, mesmerized, as John chops carrots and tomatoes with dizzying speed. Many a night, Yassen had watched those hands expertly twirl a knife or take a life with one. It seems strange to watch them to something as innocuous with a knife as cutting vegetables.

John sees his gaze and smirks.

“Didn’t think I knew how to do something so domestic, did you?” he asks.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do,” Yassen says honestly, and John laughs, carefree and boyish.

“Careful. Helen insists my ego is already overblown.”

He helps Helen garden, gladly carrying buckets of water for her and listening patiently as she instructs him in how to care for the various flowers and vegetables that bloom around their house. It feels good, to coax life from fertile soil rather than snuff it out with lead and steel.

Every day, he helps her water the tomatoes, until, one day, they’re ripe enough to pick. That night, John makes a salad, deftly slicing what Helen had grown, and together they sit down to dinner and eat the fruits of her labor and his.

For the first time in his life, there’s no death sitting by his side at the table, only life.


End file.
